Till I Collapse
by Tiramisu.belt
Summary: When Ghost and Roach are captured, their captor know they'll have to depend upon Roach for a confession. But it's not just torture which threatens their life, but obsession.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note:** Hey guys… I guess I'm a bit new here, so please be nice to me! This is only the prologue, and it opens with a bit of a shocker. The main character is Roach although Soap is quite significant in it too. It's in an alternate timeline to the events of MW2 and has been inspired by Eminem's 'Till I Collapse'. Anyhow, hope you guys like it and you don't slaughter me! =)

**WARNING! **This story contains graphic depictions of character torture, hints of rape/abuse and slash.

**Disclaimer: **I own no characters in this story besides Chekov, Alina Kerenskaya, Yuri Kerensky, Radion Kerensky and Dara Park. All characters are otherwise property of Infinity Ward.

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**Prologue**

How long had it been?

Every man has his breaking point. Roach hadn't yet reached his, but he was so, so close. He could withstand most of the pains unintended for man to feel. The point of Task Force 141 was not to _feel_ pain. It was to deliver it in a hailstorm of bullets and fire. 141 was fearless, even in the face of certain death.

But the sensation of being thrown so close to death only to be pulled back was another thing. It wasn't the physical stress of it that took its toll upon the men, but the undue psychological desire to just let go and forget about survival to escape a world of unceasing pain and humiliation. Where Chekov hadn't hurt him physically, he had compensated in Roach's mind. Once wrought with vigorous arrogance and attitude, Roach was now silent, almost unresponsive to life, almost, in a way, subservient. Chekov hadn't broken him, but with every passing minute, Roach felt he could.

So how long had it been? Roach didn't know.

"_I'll come back for you, Roach… I promise you… I won't abandon you."_

Roach could feel his face flush. He didn't know how much longer he could take. His ankles were fixed with carabineers at shoulder width. His hands were cuffed behind his back, tied to his ankles, a steel spreader held his elbows apart, accompanied by the familiar feel of the bolt digging into his spine. Two jump leads were clipped to them, still sparking from its dying car battery. A bit-gag was clenched tightly between his teeth. His right calf muscle had been cut, but his leg was numb.

"_Everything is gonna be alright, Roach… I promise I'll come back… Don't give up on hope… Don't fall…"_

Worst of all, he was invert suspended six feet from the ground with little more than his trousers to spare him from the cold. Two German shepherds snapped madly at his head, insane with the smell of the blood that splashed across Roach's sweaty body from his wounds. Chekov had taken full advantage of him. Full… advantage.

But he had to hold out. A part of Roach just wanted to give up there and then, but another part wanted to fight. Ghost would be back. It was that part of him that knew it. Ghost never made a promise he couldn't keep.

"_I promise, Roach… Just hold on... Do it for me."_


	2. How He Came To Be

**Author's Note:** Part 1, how Roach came to 141...

**Disclaimer: **I own no characters in this story besides Chekov, Alina Kerenskaya, Yuri Kerensky, Radion Kerensky and Dara Park. All characters are otherwise property of Infinity Ward.

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**PART I - One Year Ago**

Gary rappelled from the Sikorsky MH-53 Pave Low down into the barracks. He had felt a sudden pang of inadequacy after seeing the troops who loitered around the compound. Some were jogging around the perimeter, others were benching what looked like tons on the outdoor gym whilst the rest appeared to be chatting in observation or sparring one another in hand-to-hand combat. They were thick, largely built men with bulging muscles and throbbing veins, their fronts and faces covered in the sweat and scars of every front line they had seen. Gary was 5"10' and just on 171lbs. Most of them could crush him beneath a single finger.

He unclipped the rappelling line and waved off the pilot before he began to head towards the massive concrete bunker in the middle of the compound. Though his face was disguised with a bland khaki balaclava and a pair of goggles, he could still feel their eyes watching him as he climbed the stairs to the bunker.

Gary knocked upon the door.

"Star?" In the single word, he could hear the rough voice of a Scotsman.

"Lincoln."

"Enter." Slowly, Gary twisted the handle.

Six men stood around a table. He felt a chill go down his spine as he saw the red-tinted lenses and a skull turn in his direction. His patch said he was British, but Gary couldn't tell. There was something freakish about this man, but Gary couldn't pinpoint exactly what.

Gary dismissed the feeling, putting his hand to his brow and standing at attention. "Sergeant Gary Sanderson, sir!"

"At ease, soldier. Good to see you made it in one piece." Gary recognized the man from the file. _Lieutenant_ _General Shepherd; commander of Task Force_. "Glad to hear another American voice on my base. Where are you from, soldier?"

"Detroit, Michigan, sir."

"Nice place." Gary knew Shepherd was being a smartass with him, going by Detroit's common reputation. He would have picked a fight had it not been the Lieutenant General, but it was and Gary's hot head at least knew its place here.

Shepherd left the table and came to stand before Gary. He smelt of old cigars, a disgusting odor. "I take it you were briefed by Messenger on the way here?"

Messenger was the Australian on board the Pave Low who had accompanied Gary from Georgia, where he was last stationed. After being grafted from his previous deployment by special demand, he had been informed that he was no longer a regular Green Beret; he was Special Ops.

"Yes, sir."

Shepherd crossed his arms across his chest and jutted his head to the five left standing around the table. "Then this is your team for the mission. You'll be led by Soap."

The man had a defined high-and-tight with a gruff stubble and thick eyebrows shadowing over dark blue, almost black, eyes. A scar shot through his left eyebrow. He didn't look as though he could smile.

'Soap' looked to the aging lieutenant general with a raised eyebrow after taking a moment to inspect Gary. "You're giving us a kid to work with, Shepherd?"

Shepherd patted Soap's shoulder, taking a cigar from his pocket and lighting it. "Don't judge a book by its cover, Soap. The kid's dangerous. He's got a definitive skill set your unit will do nothing but benefit from. But go easy on him. He's the FNG." He looked to Gary with a smile. "Am I right, Sergeant?"

Gary nodded again. "Yes, sir." He seemed to be saying that a lot lately.

The Lieutenant General stared at Gary with adamant eyes. "From the moment you exit this room, Sergeant Gary Sanderson no longer exists. He was killed in Georgia three days ago. To the rest of the world, he's dead. To One-Four-One, you've just been born." A grin emerged beneath his mustache. "Don't let me down, _Roach_. Do your duty, and do it well."

Before he could reply, Shepherd had passed him and through the door into the courtyard and he was left standing before the five other troops glaring at him. Soap inspected him again.

"Roach, eh?" He couldn't tell what the big man was thinking, or whether it was in scorn or interest. "What's a kid like you doing around here?"

"Saving the world. What about you?" Gary said. He knew Shepherd had thrown him into the deep end, especially with this Scotsman. 141's were big, but he wasn't about to let them get the better of him.

"American; should have known. So you're some flashy triple-A Yankee, are you?" Soap shoved Gary lightly with a smirk.

Gary crossed his arms with an equally arrogant sneer. "You just met fucking Roger Clemens."

"You sound like typical gangland trash to me, those one without even half a brain cell." Soap grunted. "Like a bit of Eminem then? Maybe a bit of Pitbull?"

"Tell you what, _Teuchter_, first mission and I'll show you how I'm gonna rip this shit till my bones collapse." He had to admit, Eminem always had his back. Coming from downtown Detroit, Gary had a bit of pride in being Caucasian and from the 'hood. His family had come from substantially below the poverty line, but he always had the desire for military. In order to avoid his drunken father and drug-dealer mother, he spent his time training for selection. It was a way of breaking free of the vicious poverty cycle, and so far, he had succeeded. It had brought enough scorn in his career already, and he wasn't about to just let anybody tear him down for it.

"I'd lik-"

"The kid's an anchor, Soap, I think it's best you keep him on your good side." They all turned to the skull-masked figure. He had a cockney accent to support the British flag upon his arm. "I read your file, Sergeant. Age waiver Green Beret at nineteen. Impressive." Gary gave him a smug smile of satisfaction. "Following in Rob's footsteps?"

The FNG straightened, swallowing the lump that had developed in his throat. Robert Sanderson was in the Special Forces too. He had been killed four years ago, just as Gary had entered Special Forces training. It had led Gary to work harder and more vehemently, to never be as foolish as the older brother he idolized. Gary had always been an overachiever and he wasn't going to let it stop him getting his Green Beret by his own merit.

"Making my own, more like." Gary replied.

"He was a good man, good soldier. Always told me about you; his overachieving baby brother." The man looked down at Gary as he spoke. "I didn't think I'd ever be dealing with another Sanderson ever again."

"You won't be; I'm not Gary Sanderson." The twenty-three-year-old Sergeant smiled.

The man held out a gloved hand in front of him at chest height. "Ghost."

_Roach_ clutched hold of it. "Roach."

"Welcome to Task Force 141, mate." He felt Ghost squeeze his hand before letting go of it. Behind the harsh red-tinted sunglasses, Gary could see a regal air of elegance from his soft refined blue eyes rather than a hardened soldier. Though he remained frightening, he seemed to be another in the band of misfits from here and there. Suddenly, it wasn't so bad. They felt like they were his new family, replacing the one he had left behind.

Ghost pulled out a flip-knife from his pocket, handing it to Gary. It was made of brushed gunmetal, engraved with a hardened 'G-R-S' upon its handle. "All of us have one. This one is yours." Gary took it, inspecting it carefully. Ghost rubbed Gary's hair, departing from the room. "Hope you enjoy your stay."

After all, Sergeant Gary Sanderson was dead. He was Roach, of Task Force 141.


	3. No Rookie

**Author's Note:** So... this is really the beginning of Roach and Ghost's torments... Or how they came to be tormented. As said, it's an alternate view to Roach's falling from the roof in the "The Hornet's Nest" level in MW2. Mixed around the characters a bit though...

**WARNING! **This story contains graphic depictions of character torture, hints of rape/abuse and slash. (not quite yet though... It'll come)

**Disclaimer: **I own no characters in this story besides Chekov, Alina Kerenskaya, Yuri Kerensky, Radion Kerensky and Dara Park. All characters are otherwise property of Infinity Ward.

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**Part II – Six Weeks Prior**

"My friend, from up here, it looks like the whole village is trying to kill you!"

Roach slid across the corrugated iron rooftop to turn the corner. Gunshots reverberated in his ears, ricocheting from every wall around them. He had been caught in a crossfire just as the rest were fleeing, otherwise he would have been the fastest of them. Soap was up ahead, navigating the way towards the beta Landing Zone, Apex just behind. Ghost directly in front of him, glancing back every few seconds to see how he was holding up.

It had been a year since he joined Task Force 141. With over twenty special operations to his name, Roach was no longer the rookie of the regiment, but he remained the youngest – the prodigy -by at least four years. Since his arrival onto TF141, only Ghost, Soap and Roach three remained from the original unit. The terror Soap once brought him with his Scottish sonic-boom of a voice saying, 'Drop and give me fifty!' no longer existed. The Scotsman was fond enough of Roach as to not tell him to learn his place when Roach reminded him that if he wasn't killed by bullets, it would be by the lung cancer.

As for Ghost, Roach and he were close. Was that a result of his brother, Robert Sanderson? Roach didn't know, but whenever Roach's arrogance, quick temper or attitude had gotten him into trouble, Ghost had always been the one to claim defensiveness.

_Day 4. The Hornet's Nest._

Roach had never been fond of the idea of torture, but extracting the information they needed from Rojas and his assistant was more difficult than they had thought. Ghost often told the story of his friend, Lieutenant Simon Riley who had been tortured for months with the most unspeakable torments. Soap dismissed it as fiction, but amongst TF141, it remained the reason for Ghost's permanently hidden face. It had all suddenly become much more real when Roach had viewed how calm and impartial Ghost had been in the application of electricity which ended the lives of both men.

But they had the information they needed and were on the way to obtaining it: Prisoner #627.

However, there were people in the favela - Russian people - who were not all too happy with the knowledge that Rojas had been hunted down. They had no option but to leave. They didn't have time for another firefight.

"Tell me something I don't know!" Soap yelled into his comm. piece. Roach leapt over a small alleyway gap and landed, watching as the field commander slid backwards through some bed sheets hanging out upon the line. His heart was beating, the adrenaline of his flight flooding through his body. Fighting was natural for his missions, fleeing the enemy without attacking was not. "Just get ready to pick us up!"

Soap spun around a corner just as Roach sped across a make-shift roofing bridge. Ghost's voice shouted back at them in his sprint. "We're running out of rooftop!"

He turned the corner. The Pave Low was hovering with its entrance level with the rooftops just opposite the alleyway which split the favela blocks. Thank god for his goggles; the dirt and dust whipped up from rotors was almost unbearable.

"We can make it! Go go go!" Soap boomed, passing Apex in his flight.

Roach watched as Soap sailed through the air first, a massive crash sounding as his feet collided against the iron rooftop, stumbling forwards for a second before regaining his balance, followed by Apex. Ghost made the leap.

He held his breath.

A sudden pain shot through his leg. "NO!" Roach felt his leg buckle beneath him as the bullet made its exit.

"Roach!"

He wasn't going to make it. Roach crashed down against the rooftop, his weapon hanging upon its sling beside him. But he was sliding. Roach grappled to find a holding upon the corrugated iron but there was none.

Roach felt himself jerk upwards. His fingertips had just held onto the edge of the rooftops.

He saw a skull emerge from above. Its hands were stretched out towards him, trying to snatch his into it. Roach released his left hand to catch its grip. But it stumbled forwards.

Ghost's supporting right arm crumbled beneath him. His left shoulder came crashing down to the rooftop. As Roach began to fall, he watched as Ghost followed him down. His eyes widened in horror.

Then his vision cut.

Roach had suffered plenty of concussions, but falling twenty feet was a different issue. Helmet or not, the impact was enough to put him out for a few minutes. His head throbbed. His leg was numb.

Hands padded across his body. Roach could feel them strip off his vest, pulling it over his lolling head. His gloves were pulled from his hands. Through the blurriness, he could see his helmet tossed aside with his goggles and balaclava and his weapons.

"Ghost? Ghost…?" Roach muttered, unable to comprehend the world around him.

He heard laughs come from around him. _"Идиот понятия не имеет..." The idiot has no idea._

The hands pulled his hands behind his back, tying them together so tightly he could feel the blood flow cut. His ankles were linked together as well before they hastily moved to his head. A man placed his hand around his mouth so his index finger and thumb met the opposite ends of his teeth beneath his cheeks. It squeezed, forcing open his lips to part. Roach felt something stuffed inside his mouth before another rag wrapped around his head and tied off.

Roach felt himself get pulled up from the ground and his athletic frame thrown onto a large black Cuban's shoulder twice his size. He grunted as the air was pushed from his stomach. Sweat was drooling down his face and through his hair as he stared to the dirt street below. Roach attempted a struggle before he felt a hand clutch around his throat. His own flip-knife was brandished before his face.

His breath stunk of vodka and cigarettes, his face scarred with a massive slice down one eye. Roach was staring into the face of his enemy; Yessen Chekov. "Struggle, young one, and I will cut your friend's throat." He jerked the knife in another direction.

Roach tiredly raised his head, immediately pausing. Ghost hung over another man's shoulder, tied, limp and unconscious. For the first time, Roach saw his auburn-red high-and-tight and real face without his skulled balaclava, headset or sunglasses. He resumed looking to the ground.

"Good boy." Chekov patted his head with a freakish smile. Roach growled angrily. If there was anything he hated more than the Russians, it was condescension. Chekov laughed. "If you plan on surviving, American, you should save your energy." He looked to his henchmen. "Let us go."


End file.
